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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720071">Confessional</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden'>hydrangeamaiden</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soul of Wyrm, Soul of Root, Heart of Gold [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hollow Knight (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Tragedy, Depression, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Parent Death, Regret, The Pale King is a Good Parent (Hollow Knight)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:14:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks before the Pale King's passing, Hornet learns of Hallownest's secrets.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Pale King &amp; Hornet (Hollow Knight)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soul of Wyrm, Soul of Root, Heart of Gold [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>229</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The nursery feels a lot emptier than it ought to be, for a place as well-furnished and comfortable as it is. The bed that Hornet once shared with her sibling has been swapped out for their cradle, which is far more accommodating for her small size. Their old dresses and cloaks still hang in the armoire, ranging in size from gowns that she had seen them wear mere days before <em>it</em> happened, to simple frocks meant for a hatchling.</p>
<p class="western">Hornet’s own clothes take up the left side of the closet: mostly fabrics in rich colors that her mother and the other Weavers had sewn for her, but lately there has been an increasing amount of white dresses. Hornet doesn’t complain when the Pale King picks one of the white ones out, even though she <em>knows</em> she’s going to spill jam on it or she’ll trip in the garden because the hem is too long, and the retainers will scold her even though it’s not her fault.</p>
<p class="western">Then she remembers that there <em>are</em> no retainers left. The Pale King had dismissed the last of them just yesterday. Who’s going to clean up the Palace, now? It’s so big; just the two of them won’t be able to manage.</p>
<p class="western">Anyway, the dress. She’s still too little to pick out her own clothes. She can’t even get the hangers without her stepping stool, which is only tall enough for her to get into the cradle anyway. Not that she climbs in there of her own volition. The entirety of the White Palace, so it seems, is hers to play in, and she has to go to bed at 8 o’clock? It’s ridiculous.</p>
<p class="western">“Daddy, the red one,” Hornet says, bobbing up and down and generally making it difficult for him to do up the buttons and tie the ribbon on her cowl. She has officially lost her patience. “Red? Please?”</p>
<p class="western">“Next time. I’ve already dressed you,” replies the Pale King, with that tired sigh Hornet has been hearing a lot these days. He sighs again when Hornet tugs at the ribbon, and takes her hands to stop her.</p>
<p class="western">The most peculiar thing happens when he does that. Hornet, for the briefest of moments, thinks of the Pale King’s workshop, as clear as a photograph. She imagines his work bench, with a lot of papers and mechanical bobs and bits scattered across the surface. Why did she think of that? Did that thought belong to her? It feels like maybe it didn’t. The Pale King never let her into his workshop, no matter how hard she cried.</p>
<p class="western">“Shop?” she asks when he lifts her into his arms.</p>
<p class="western">“No.” It’s always no with him! Then: “I’ll give you a project today, but you must <em>not</em> go into the workshop.”</p>
<p class="western">“’Kay.” Hornet puts her chin on his shoulder and watches the nursery recede from view. On a Saturday morning, it would have been a servant trying to cajole her out of the room, even though they all knew she would be cranky because she had woken up in the White Palace and not in Deepnest. Sundays and Mondays it was her sibling who carried her to breakfast, and it was her father who carried her all the way back to Deepnest or at least to the Palace entrance, if her mother had come to pick her up.</p>
<p class="western">Today is a Wednesday, and Hornet hasn’t seen Deepnest in months. The Palace’s blinding light wards away memories of those dark tunnels and webbed caverns, where right about now she would still be asleep in her mother’s nest. Her mother always wore a long shawl to bed. It was...blue? Purple? Or red, like the dress that has already slipped Hornet’s mind? She can’t remember what color it was, but she would have wrapped herself up in it while listening to the scuttle of spider legs outside.</p>
<p class="western">The White Palace is comparatively silent, even with her father’s many legs scuttling against the floor. To fill in the quiet, she begins to hum.</p>
<p class="western">She hums while the Pale King is at the stove. It’s still funny to see him cooking, with his sleeves rolled up and his four arms maneuvering the cookware and cutlery. He even knows Deepnest food: dirtcarver and goams and things that fell in from above, usually roasted or fried and then served with a thick, dark gravy that Hornet liked to dip mushrooms in. The mushrooms were her favorites, even the ones that made her pedipalps glow when she bit into them.</p>
<p class="western">Hornet’s stomach growls just as the Pale King sets her plate before her. The food she ate back when she only stayed the weekends was always something like soup in a thin broth, or dishes with lots of vegetables that never quite filled her. Fairy food, she had called it, after a story where a bug went to a fae realm where, no matter how much they ate, they were never satisfied. She remembers her mother badgering the Pale King about how much protein spiders need, and apparently he took her advice to heart. The vegetables here are a side dish, whereas the main course is meat, real dirtcarver, diced into bites that even Hornet couldn’t choke on.</p>
<p class="western">And there’s the jam and toast. She always spills it, no matter how careful she is.</p>
<p class="western">It’s not that she cares <em>that</em> much about keeping her clothes fresh. She just hates wasting food. Jam can’t be eaten if it’s smeared down her front. The bib the Pale King has just fastened around her neck doesn’t make it better.</p>
<p class="western">“I’m not a <em>baby</em>,” Hornet scowls. Did he just smile at her?</p>
<p class="western">“You are still a hatchling, my child, and a very messy eater.” The Pale King sits across from her and folds his hands. “Now, tell me...What is the biggest number you can think of?”</p>
<p class="western">Hornet’s fork stops right in front of her mouth. She doesn’t notice a drop of gravy land on her bib. “Um…fifty?”</p>
<p class="western">“Hm. What if you compared that to a thousand?”</p>
<p class="western">“How much is that?”</p>
<p class="western">“Far larger than a fifty. Then there is ten thousand, and a hundred thousand...”</p>
<p class="western">Hornet doesn’t know those numbers yet, and frankly, math is one of her least favorite subjects. She stops paying attention, and chases an errant fried tomato.</p>
<p class="western">“If you can count to a hundred thousand, then I shall stop considering you a baby,” the King then says, which gets her attention. She looks up, eyes wide with anticipation, only for him to dab her cheek with a napkin. “Such a messy eater.”</p>
<p class="western">Hornet tries to bite his fingers, but she’s not being serious, of course.</p>
<p class="western">After breakfast, the Pale King takes her to his study, where a round jar filled with marbles waits for her on the play mat. It’s twice as wide as the cradle, and whenever it is set down, it means that her father has important work to do and that she’s not to leave the mat without permission.</p>
<p class="western">“There are a hundred thousand marbles in this jar. Please count them all,” the Pale King says, and then goes to his desk.</p>
<p class="western">Hornet opens the lid and sticks her hands into the marbles. Her mother and the other Weavers would have been teaching her how to weave, or how to hold a needle. There was counting involved there, but never counting just for the sake of it. There’s no apparent, practical reason why counting marbles will make her any better at hunting or weaving webs.</p>
<p class="western">The marbles look like candy. Hornet takes one and opens her mouth wide, when the Pale King interrupts her.</p>
<p class="western">“Do not put that in your mouth.” He apparently didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see what she was up to.</p>
<p class="western">Hornet sticks her tongue out at him.</p>
<p class="western">She empties the jar onto the play mat, and begins to arrange the marbles by color. It’s hard to find anything that isn’t grey or white or black here. Even the play mat, with its braided fringes and embroidered flowers, is grey. If not for her toys, clothes, and the books in the nursery, she would have forgotten which colors were which already. Hornet cannot get her father to share the same enthusiasm for anything other than pristine white.</p>
<p class="western">One, two, three, four five. Each marble makes a satisfying <em>plink</em> against the glass.</p>
<p class="western">Six, seven…Hornet wonders what the Pale King does at his desk all day. He writes, shuffles papers around, flips through books. He looks the way Hornet does, when she’s pretending to be busy. Eight, nine, ten. It’s going to take a long while for her to count to a hundred thousand. She glances at the Pale King. If he’s not as busy as he looks, maybe he’ll help her. However, she always feels hesitant to bother him when he’s at his desk.</p>
<p class="western">Hornet labors through twenty more marbles before she gathers up the courage to speak: “Daddy?”</p>
<p class="western">“Yes?” the King hums, pausing in writing on a long piece of parchment.</p>
<p class="western">“...Nothing.” Hornet drops another marble into the jar.</p>
<p class="western">It would be a long, long time before Hornet read anything the Pale King wrote, and only then after he was but an afterimage in her life: as much of a memory as her childhood home is. She would never have thought to salvage his work. To her, the White Palace was as eternal as kingdom had once believed. It’s not implausible that she was the only one left who thought of it this way.</p>
<p class="western">When Hornet gets to the last marble, her mouth forms a surprised ‘o’ shape. “Daddy!” she squeaks at him, “I counted <em>all</em> of them, and there are only sixty!”</p>
<p class="western">The Pale King looks over his shoulder, mandibles spread in a mischievous grin. “I know.”</p>
<p class="western">“Come and look.” Hornet slaps her hands against the rug. “Only sixty. You tricked me!”</p>
<p class="western">The Pale King sits on the wound-up coils of his tail. “Indeed. You are a gullible baby. <em>My</em> gullible baby.”</p>
<p class="western">“Nooo,” Hornet whines as he picks her up. She twists in his arms to face away from him, arms crossed and face scrunched in a scowl. “You <em>tricked</em> me into doing <em>math</em>!”</p>
<p class="western">“Yes, I did,” he coos. Hornet is still so small that even if she lets herself hang like a sack of flour, he has no problem at all supporting her weight. She does not get even a moment to sulk before his wiggling claws are upon her, drawing out shrieks of laughter. All of her frustration is forgotten; winning a tickle war is far more important.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The Pale King wakes up with a start. It’s Monday morning, which means Herrah will be coming to pick up Hornet. It’s almost 10am; she’ll be here any minute, and he has slept in. He crawls out of bed and throws a dressing gown on over his night clothes. There’s no time for him to look presentable, so this will have to do.</p><p class="western">He’s halfway out the door when it dawns on him that Herrah is gone. This weighs physically onto his shoulders; he puts a hand on the doorway to keep from crumbling entirely. A glowfly flaps its wings against the bare marble ceiling. His room is among the many that have been stripped bare of plant life, but today he regrets that. The walls feel like they’re spiraling away, leaving him in a lifeless sea of his own light.</p><p class="western">Yes, it is his own light, but the Pale King is starting to grow sick of it. It’s not something he wants to admit, no longer enjoying something that has always been such a fundamental part of himself. He must have started to tire of it when leaving his castle was no longer an option. What should naturally follow is the desire to go outside and have a change of scenery, but everywhere outside the White Palace is now hell.</p><p class="western">Herrah and his other Dreamers, sleeping in the midst of it all. His Root hiding in the gardens. Their union had fallen apart piece by piece until she retreated to her gardens and simply refused to come back. She had chosen hell above him. That sounds about right.</p><p class="western">The Pale King shuts the door with a soft <em>click</em> and returns to bed. The only obligation he has left is to his infant daughter, who is sleeping soundly in her hand-me-down cradle. The King must remind himself that she is present in the castle, lest he lose his mind entirely. Her leaving his line of sight feels dangerous. She could disappear at any moment, slip through a crack in the Palace’s illusion and wind up in the ruins of the Ancient Basin.</p><p class="western">He hasn’t been in bed for ten minutes, and he’s already back at the door. The rational, often prevailing part of his mind tells him that she’s safe and right where he left her. His primal, brooding instincts tell him that he needs to go to her <em>right now</em> because if he doesn’t see her for himself, how does he know for sure? Why in the world did he think it was a good idea to keep his child in a separate room? She’s not safe there.</p><p class="western">He half runs, half glides out of his chambers and stirs up a breeze when he halts at the nursery door. His wings remain spread in alarm even when he rushes inside and leans over the cradle. The little one is sprawled under a wool blanket and only sighs when the Pale King pinches one of her little hands between his thumb and forefinger.</p><p class="western">Here he was, losing his mind, and the Gendered Child couldn’t even be bothered to wake up for it. The Pale King sinks into the chair before the cradle in thorough exhaustion. He doesn’t have the heart to take her from her nest when she looks so comfortable. This ended up being a better fit for her than the twin bed she shared with the Hollow Knight, though there was no doubt that she enjoyed those little sleepovers every weekend. He can easily imagine the two hiding under the covers when they should have been asleep, with a single captured lumafly to light up the book between them.</p><p class="western">The Pale King had taken Hornet for granted and foisted her upon the Hollow Knight every time he got a little bit busy. The Vessel had held her patiently every time, probably every bit as coddling and cuddly as her mother was when no one was looking. Herrah had obviously had an influence on them, even more so than their biological mother. If the King had just paid attention, if only he had…</p><p class="western">He puts his head in his hands. There’s nothing to be done about that now.</p><p class="western">He’s fine with staying inside this Palace until he rots, but he can foresee Hornet growing restless sooner than later. It won’t be long before she starts asking for her mother. Through careful observation, he has noticed that she hardly remembers being taken away from Deepnest. Considering she had lost her mother and sibling in one day, he can’t blame her for blocking it out.</p><p class="western">After some time spent contemplating these things, Hornet stirs and yawns. She props her chin on the edge of the cradle and stares, wide-eyed. The Pale King doesn’t notice she’s awake until she tries to crawl into his lap, and he hastens to catch her.</p><p class="western">“Child, do not climb out on your own,” he scolds, but she ignores him and reaches over his shoulder.</p><p class="western">“Wings!” the child babbles. Her fingertips brush against the iridescent chitin. The wing shudders from this contact, but he allows her to continue. She too will have wings of her own, one day. It is important that she acquaint herself with how they look and feel. No good deed goes unpunished, however, as he finds out when Hornet gives one of his wings a sharp tug.</p><p class="western">“That’s enough of that.” The King winces and catches her hands. She’s already so active this early in the morning. There must be a way for her to work off that excess energy. Perhaps…?</p><p class="western">“Shall we go to the Lady’s courtyard?” he suggests. Hornet’s eyes widen in excitement.</p><p class="western">“Okay!”</p><p class="western">The Pale King had taken to avoiding any part of the palace that reminded him of his wife. Even before he dismissed the retainers, he forbade them from entering the gardens, and even ordered the gates to be shut. As a result, the plants have grown wild and tangled over the gates, making it an effort to get it open. He hesitates to draw a weapon in front of his child, but he might have to it if means unblocking the gates.</p><p class="western">Hornet is already crawling up the wall. Being as tiny as she is, the thorns of thick vines are just the right size as footholds. She stops halfway up to grasp at a black flower with star-like patches on it. “Climb up?” she asks him, holding out her hand. The Pale King shakes his head.</p><p class="western">“No. We are going in the proper way.” Otherwise it’d feel like they’re breaking in. He paws at particularly stubborn root, and draws his hand away with a gasp. There’s a fine line across his palm, which beads up with liquid Soul and suddenly begins to sting. The King hisses and prepares to heal himself, but something in his blood makes him go cold.</p><p class="western">It’s completely black.</p><p class="western">The Pale King sucks in a breath. Above him, Hornet squeaks at him, but he pays her no mind. That he has been tainted with Void is nothing new to him. Frequent experimentation and trips into the Abyss did that to him almost immediately after the Vessel project. There was enough present in him that Hornet had taken on the physical qualities of a Vessel herself, sharing about half as much Void as her doomed siblings. The Pale King had had swirls of Void in his blood when she was conceived.</p><p class="western">But it was still mostly white. His blood has turned completely black.</p><p class="western">“Daddy?” Hornet has climbed back down onto his shoulder. “Ouchie? I’ll kiss it better. Mama says it helps.”</p><p class="western">‘Says’, not ‘said’, as if Herrah were still around to give that advice. The Pale King holds her at bay before she can get any closer to his wound. “You will get blood on yourself, my child. For now, it seems climbing is the only option we have.”</p><p class="western">And so they climb, much to Hornet’s delight. She scampers out of his reach and over the wall first, with him cresting the peak soon after. The rest of the garden is similarly overgrown in a way that mildly surprises the Pale King. Even after all this time, he remembers when she sowed the first seeds in the courtyard. Before Hallownest had become established, when it was just the two of them, he had spent many an afternoon lounging on her lap, while she tended to some tree or shrub. She would raise plants and watch them die, take clippings to plant, cultivating flower beds, and so on.</p><p class="western">The garden is not up to the standards of a palace, but it is doing just fine without <span>the White Lady</span>. He had foreseen as much, but privately wished it wasn’t the case, so he’d have some justification for wanting her back. The garden is thriving without her, and he is not, but he is still keeping on. There is a similar overgrowth in his mind that is not nearly as idyllic and charming as what has become of this place in particular.</p><p class="western">He half-expects Hornet to tear up the place in her excitement. Already she is pulling out fistfuls of tall grass, leaving uneven tufts behind her. The grass is so densely packed that it does not fall back into place when she pushes through it, and the King watches in amusement as his daughter paves an erratic, twisting road. Every flower in her path is hers for the taking, each stone to be tossed into the little stream that had once been home to pale water gliders. The statues, mummified by weeds, do not register as art to her but more things to climb.</p><p class="western">She calls for him, incoherently, from the top of what might have been a statue of the Hollow Knight. The only things suggesting such are its height, and its two curved horns. The King holds his arms out for her to tumble into, and she does so with such force that he stumbles backwards. His many legs scramble and only get tangled in the grass, sending him falling onto his back. Plumes of grass and flowers fly up in a great cloud, and Hornet, sitting atop his chest, laughs.</p><p class="western">“Again! Again!” Hornet squeals, while the Pale King groans. She crawls away before he can catch her, off towards another statue. “Catch me!”</p><p class="western">The Pale King has bested many foes back in his day, but none have caused him this kind of anxiety. Are Weavers as fragile as Tarantulas, for whom even a short fall can mean death? His wings flare and push him forward right as Hornet jumps. This time he’s prepared, and properly catches her, rather than being thrown on.</p><p class="western">“Do not jump from such a height, child,” he scolds, and sets her back into the grass. Hornet considers this for a few seconds. He does not wait for her to respond, and thinks quickly to distract her. He gathers up some of the grass she discarded, and separates it into three bunches. “I could do something with this...”</p><p class="western">Hornet makes a little confused noise, and then crows with delight when the Pale King begins to braid the grass. She follows him as he goes to pick up the flowers and other such plant matter she had pulled up and discarded, begging for him to make her a crown, a decoration for her cloak, a bracelet, anything. The King could have made a pile of flowers, like fallen autumn leaves, and she would’ve been satisfied with being tossed into it.</p><p class="western">He sits down in a shaded area, cushioned by the grass and the coils of his tail. The last time he tried to weave anything was when Herrah had made him, for some reason or another. He hadn’t made much progress before deeming the craft unnecessary and giving up. Now that he has full custody of Hornet, he understands why Herrah had been so offended and disappointed. She wanted him to teach her when she was gone. It strikes him as strange that she hadn’t imparted that task to the other Weavers, that they had been so quick to leave for their ancestral lands once their queen was asleep. He had offered a room for a handful of them so the Princess may have teachers, but they declined.</p><p class="western">Had Herrah known that their plan would fail?</p><p class="western">There had been instances where the Dreamers met alone. It makes him paranoid to think of what they had discussed without him, even though he had no right to know. It wasn’t his business. He was the one asking them to essentially give up their lives for his kingdom.</p><p class="western">Hornet has drifted from his side to wade in the stream, with the hems of her dress bunched up in her fists. With no fish or water gliders to get in her way, she has full reign of the water. Thank goodness it’s shallow: she doesn’t know how to swim. The lake in Deepnest had been too deep and cold for any of the Weaver children to swim in until they were older and hardier.</p><p class="western">During these ruminations, he has woven a small crown that may or may not be too big for Hornet’s head. He glances over to make sure she hasn’t somehow drowned herself, and sees her digging around for stones and getting herself soaked. She had tried to keep herself dry at first, but the lure of the water was too much for her to not flop forward and submerge herself.</p><p class="western">The Pale King starts working on a posy. Had Herrah known? <span>A</span><span>gain, she</span> had always been fond of the Pure Vessel, and had arguably been more of a mother to them than the White Lady, whom he cannot blame for being <span>d</span><span>istant</span>. If only <span>Herrah</span> were awake! He’ll never know for sure if he had been the victim of subterfuge, as punishment for his own hubris. But to willingly allow a sentient being to enter the Temple of the Black Egg…No, she would never keep that a secret from him. None of the Dreamers would; it would be far too inhumane for any of them.</p><p class="western">His robes suddenly feel wet, and that is because Hornet—dripping wet—is climbing into his lap. He shudders and holds her at arm’s length. The stream isn’t even up to her waist. What did she do, roll around in it? <span>Hornet makes little ‘ah’ sounds and stretches her arms out, trying to close the distance between them.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Do you realize you are soaked?” he asks her. With a sigh, he places the flower crown on her head. It immediately falls over her eyes, but she seems pleased enough. “Here. I’ve made this as well; I shall attach it to a pin when we go back inside.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He hands her the posy, praying that she doesn’t tear it apart or put it in her mout</span>
  <span>h. She doesn’t, fortunately, just dips her face into the blossoms and sniffs. </span>
  <span>During her moment of stillness, the Pale King removes his outer mantle and drapes it over her shoulders. The White Palace is not known for its warmth.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>I should have brought a change of clothes for you,” he sighs. Such a large garment makes her look even smaller than normal, to a comical degree. He doesn’t want to go all the way back to the nursery. “No matter—you may wear that until you are dry, but you are not to go into the water again.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Aww.” Hornet’s face falls. She stays near the King, fidgeting, clearly wanting to disobey him and go right back into the stream. He does not foresee her doing that, so he leans his back against a mossy rock and closes his eyes. Save for Hornet going back out into the grass, and the faint brush of wind, it is silent. This place used to be as loud as the gardens to the west of Greenpath, with the added musical accompaniment of the Queen’s bards. It’s practically a grave, now.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>None of it matters to Hornet, which is just as well. She doesn’t need any more reminders of what she has lost. And with that, the Pale King allows himself to doze off. She’s unlikely to leave his side, and all of a sudden, he’s so tired.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>His sleep is so light that he wonders if it really happened. The next thing he knows, his eyes are open, and the position of the sun—the facsimile that he created, anyway—has shifted. There’s a weight against his tail: Hornet, asleep with her head on his lap and his mantle still over her shoulders. She has anchored herself to him by clutching his robes, and he dares not disturb her. He adjusts her flower crown, which has fallen over her face, and leaves his hand on her back.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: Surgery/medical trauma, possible body horror??</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The days blend into each other, and as such, it is sometimes difficult to remember that this is the Dream Realm. How ironic that the safest place from the Old Light is in a dream, in the deepest depths where even the most persistent bug wouldn’t bother to go. Here there is nothing, only blinding skies softened by hazy clouds and a day-night cycle that never shortens or lengthens according to the seasons. The temperature is constant, with little if any variation in weather. The monotony is fine for a stagnant being such as the Pale King, but Hornet has just gotten through a painful molt and, like most children, wants her mother.</p><p class="western">The only thing that surprises him is that she didn’t want to leave sooner. Isolating himself for all eternity was not really the plan. If he had known he was going to do it earlier—and it’s painful to admit—he wouldn’t have brought Hornet with him. Yes, it’s true that she’s safe here, safer than she could have been anywhere in Hallownest. She does not want for anything.</p><p class="western">The Pale King pulls back his sleeve and sighs at his black, bruised forearm. There’s a lot to unpack, and his daughter’s situation is only the tip of the iceberg.</p><p class="western">The low-hanging lamp flickers. He grows frustrated, switches it off, opts for the handheld lumafly lantern on the workshop bench instead. Thus he is forced to strain his eyes as he cleans the Void from each soiled tool. A scalpel, used for the initial incisions. Retractors of various size to hold open an otherwise slippery carapace, forceps, surgical scissors. This was the first time he had personally dealt with one of Hornet’s molts, and he had to cut her open like a package. That had been Herrah and the Midwife’s jurisdiction, and their horror stories lived up to their hype. First Hornet had complained of feeling stiff and itchy. Next, she started to cough and complain that she couldn’t breathe. Then her chitin began to crack, and she started to scream—an awful, gurgling sound that sent the Pale King’s heart into his throat.</p><p class="western">What had happened at first was pretty typical of a hard molt: her shed skin was stuck to her (scalpel) and particularly airtight against her joints. The situation complicated when he realized she had inhaled her moulting fluid, and was choking on it (surgical scissors, how in the world was he going to drain it out of her?). If he had noticed it right away, he would’ve been able to spare her a lot of pain. As it was, she was thrashing about on the table and he honestly was afraid to administer anesthetics, out of fear that her body would just give up and allow her to suffocate if she went under. Needle decompression was off the table until her thorax wasn’t constricted, which meant he had to work quickly.</p><p class="western">The silence in which he cleans is deafening, compared the child’s wailing and his own panicked breathing as he peeled her molt away from her. Some of her new chitin had torn off in the process. At one point he almost de-gloved her, and accident or not, he would have never forgiven himself. It had been so much easier with his Pure Vessel, who had simply strung themselves up in a chrysalis and came out a few days later without any complications. He should have asked Herrah how she dealt with this. He never did, for some ungodly reason, even though he know he’d be taking custody of her after the Sealing.</p><p class="western">A faint splashing draws his attention, but it’s just Hornet, stirring in her little basin. When her lungs had been drained and her body freed from its sausage casing, he filled up a bowl with Void and let her soak in it. She had sprouted like a weed, going from first day of preschool to the middle of kindergarten in the span of several traumatic hours. Her horns have grown longer and sharper. Most likely she’ll struggle with their weight for the first couple of days, before her body settles and hardens.</p><p class="western">The Pale King sets his tools aside and rolls his chair over to the basin. He had the good sense to put a towel beneath her neck, so she wouldn’t slip under the Void while she slept. When she awakens and sits up, the first thing she does is chew on one of its corners. Teething?</p><p class="western">“Does your mouth hurt?” he asks. Hornet nods sadly.</p><p class="western">That would make sense.</p><p class="western">“Anywhere else?” He tests each of her arms and legs for possible joint damage. There’s this glassy look in her eyes that doesn’t clear until after he has her bundled in a nightgown, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She’s noticeably heavier in his arms, but it’ll be a while yet before she’s too big to carry. And then what? Will he keep her here until after her final molt? It occurs to him as plainly as remembering that he had left paperwork in his office. This growing sense of unease is compounded by Hornet asking for her mother. She hasn’t technically said it yet, but he knows she’s going to.</p><p class="western">His Foresight also tells him that she’s going to avoid the workshop from now on. With it being the site of her surgery, she’ll only associate it with pain from then on out, which is just as well. He doesn’t feel comfortable with her being in there for the first place. Too many sharp objects for her to cut herself on, too many large machines for her to get stuck in.</p><p class="western">It finally happens when Hornet is sitting on a pillow with an ice pop in her mouth, sullenly playing with a cloth butterfly. “I want Mama.”</p><p class="western">The Pale King, keeping vigil at her bedside, feels his heart sink. “She is asleep. You know this.”</p><p class="western">“Mmmgh.” Hornet’s face scrunches like she’s about to start crying again. “But, Mama…I wanna see her.”</p><p class="western">“I am sorry, child.” It takes great effort not to choke on his own voice. Where is the composure he had when he had to take her from her home? His competence when raising the Pure Vessel? When they had gotten injured in training or in battle, it was easy to heal their wounds with Soul, to cradle their unresponsive body and pretend he knew anything about how to be a parent.</p><p class="western">Hornet curls forward and begins to cry quietly, and all he can do is rub her back and apologize. For her, for her mother, for everything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Weirdly enough, writing this chapter made me feel better. I think writing about characters suffering is cathartic, because at least I can control what happens and the outcome can be whatever I want. I'm guessing there will be about four more chapters after this.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Those first couple of days after Hornet’s molt, she stumbled around, trying to get used to the extra weight that had settled on her horns. Her arms and legs felt too long for her body, but she liked the added height. Now she could reach doorknobs just by jumping. She could lift heavier things, too. Most importantly, she didn’t feel like she was constantly underfoot.</p><p class="western">Her environment remains the same as it was, despite all these changes, and she notices. Her father is the same height as always, sometimes slouching the way Howl did. The two are so much alike, she realizes, in some imperceptible way.</p><p class="western">There are no reminders of Herrah in the Palace, save for the richly-colored robes Hornet has taken to wearing. Or so she thinks. She doesn’t know it, but today is the beginning of a long series of surprises, starting with a stool at her father’s desk. It is made of polished white wood and has a cushion as red as a tomato, clearly marking it as hers. The Pale King is already in his own chair, and when she enters the room, he gestures for her to sit next to him. The mere idea of having access to his desk, the most important thing in the room, makes her giddy with excitement.</p><p class="western">The stool is high enough for her to comfortably rest her elbows on the tabletop, and there she sees quills, bundles of paper made from spider silk (all pleasing to the touch), tablets, and books. Right in front of the Pale King is a thin book she would’ve mistaken for a notebook, if not for the elaborate cover. She gets up on her knees to read the gilded words on the cover, and finds it curious that there is no author.</p><p class="western">“Is it a history book?” Hornet asks hopefully. She’s frankly sick of math. “Oh! It has my name on it!”</p><p class="western">She points excitedly, runs her finger along the minute indents of each letter. The King brushes her hand away and says, “We are not studying today.”</p><p class="western">He opens the book to the first page, and there’s a glossy photo of Hornet. She’s even younger in this photo than she is now, still a baby, and dressed in a voluminous dress of colorful silk. The weight of the skirts alone was enough to hold her upright.</p><p class="western">“It’s me!” Hornet crows, bouncing up and down on the stool. “But I don’t remember this photo.”</p><p class="western">“These are all from your naming ceremony, when you turned a year old. You were too young to remember.”</p><p class="western">He flips to the next page of the album, and Hornet goes still. There she is again, in her mother’s arms with a sour look on her face. Herrah’s own expression is hidden by her mask, but the claw held up where her mouth would be is the ‘laughing gesture’ Hornet suddenly remembers. There’s a photo of Weavers both familiar and unfamiliar, Midwife at the end of the line, staidly posed. The White Lady and Herrah, alone together in one photo and with an unfamiliar but important-looking bee in the next. A drone bee with the soft face of an adolescent, standing too straight and looking too serious for what must have been a joyous affair. And so, so many pictures of Hornet being held by the various attendants who cooed and fawned over her.</p><p class="western">Hornet plucks a photo from its holdings and kneels back down on the pillow. It’s Herrah, just Herrah, looking askance at something out of frame with a garland in her hands. Hornet touches the pads of her fingertips to it with reverence.</p><p class="western">Something that failed to escape her keen eyes: “Why aren’t there any pictures of you or Howl?”</p><p class="western">“We did not attend the ceremony.” The Pale King’s eyes are fixed on a picture of the White Lady, who in every photograph is poised as if ready to sit for a portrait.</p><p class="western">“Why not?”</p><p class="western">“...I was busy that day.” Had the Pale King not hesitated, Hornet would’ve have eaten up that lie.</p><p class="western">“Why?” she presses, until he finally relents.</p><p class="western">“I’ve always loathed to appear in public. I draw far too much attention. As for your sibling, I wanted their existence to remain as secret as possible.”</p><p class="western">He drums his fingers on the table. Hornet sets the photo down and thinks about it. She remembers the last birthday party she celebrated, and how she waited with baited breath for Howl to arrive. Their visits were not guaranteed, even for important matters. A naming ceremony seemed so terribly important that she just <em>knows</em> she would have been upset about their absence. The frustration takes hold of her belatedly.</p><p class="western">“That’s stupid,” she says, with hurt in her voice.</p><p class="western">“Yes.” It sounds like a great pain for the Pale King to admit it. “Your mother was furious with me.”</p><p class="western">“What did she say?”</p><p class="western">“She called me a lout.”</p><p class="western">Hornet puts a hand over her mouth and snorts.</p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Hornet keeps the photo of her mother, and a photo of her mother and herself for good measure. The Pale King offers to find frames for them, but she shakes her head and puffs up her cheeks. The pictures’ place of honor is on the wall over Howl’s old desk, stuck in place by two pieces of sticky tack each. Hornet spends a lot of time sitting in their too-big chair, searching the drawers in search of anything she could add to this miniature shrine. She finds quill nibs, a kneaded eraser, a torn sheaf of blank parchment, and a marble that makes a nice sound when she opens and closes the drawer its in.</p><p class="western">Looking under the bed, she finds a Weaverling doll she thought she lost, and stormclouds of dust that make her sneeze. She brushes off the dusty toy, puts it with the others, and checks the bookcase. Howl loved books. It might be a good idea to put some out for if they come back. She climbs onto the shelf with that intention, but ends up staying where she is, reading book after book.</p><p class="western">She reads about faraway knights and princess, and travelers who ride upon mounts she has never seen. She flips through pages dyed scarlet and sprinkled with confetti, dog-eared books that had borne the brunt of her teething, and unreadable textbooks filled with highlights and annotations.</p><p class="western">Howl’s favorite book was the one that gradated from sky blue afternoon to purple and gold sunset with glittering silver stars. It’s a simple story meant to give subterranean-dwelling children a little piece of the heavens, something Hornet has never been curious about herself. A world without a ceiling makes as much sense to her as a frying pan without a bottom. It just can’t be done.</p><p class="western">When she gets to the end, something floats out from between the pages and onto the floor. Hornet jumps after it. It’s an origami umbrella, folded out of crisp silvery paper with sequins glued onto it. Being stuck in a book has flattened it, and it takes some effort for Hornet to fluff it up again. An even smaller piece of paper falls out of <em>that</em>, all folded into a little triangle.</p><p class="western">Hornet reads it and contemplates.</p><p class="western">Then she goes to look for the Pale King.</p><p class="western">She finds him in the throne room, where he is wont to sit these days in meditation. The crushing silence is broken by the echo of her footsteps. When she’s within arm’s reach he leans forward, assuming she has come to sit on his lap, but instead she thrusts the paper umbrella into his hands.</p><p class="western">“What is this?” He pinches the umbrella by its handle to inspect. Hornet folds her arms on his knee, and he places a hand atop her head. “This is fine craftsmanship.”</p><p class="western">“Howl made it,” says Hornet, and the Pale King freezes.</p><p class="western">The Pale King reads the accompanying slip of paper, and his face twists in such raw agony that Hornet is startled. He leans his face into his hand and takes a deep breath that sounds like it might be followed by a sob. Hornet doesn’t dare to move or speak until he has straightened back up, composed but troubled.</p><p class="western">“They’re really good at folding paper,” Hornet says in a shaky voice. The idea of her father bursting into tears is deeply uncomfortable. She’s not used to seeing such an extreme display of emotions from him. She does not have the words to explain why. A long time later, she would attribute this feeling to how much she relied on her father to be strong for her. For a long time, he was the only bug she had. Being separated from her mother and her people was like being cast into the ocean where he was the only life raft, even if he was the one who dictated that Herrah sacrifice herself for Hallownest.</p><p class="western">“They were.” The Pale King tucks the paper umbrella and the note into his pocket. “I should have seen it sooner.”</p><p class="western">“It was in their book,” Hornet supplies helpfully, but the King just shakes his head.</p><p class="western">“No, not that, child.” He stands up. “I should have seen that they could <em>feel</em> and <em>create</em>. Come. There is much I have hidden from you.”</p><p class="western">Hornet, led out of the throne room by the hand, is more even bewildered than before.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I like having little Easter eggs for my other fics. See if you can find them in this chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It took a lot to get this chapter done, because I'm used to writing PK as really secretive. Also, it's hard to be productive when you accidentally neglect yourself :P Thanks for reading as always!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">There’s a door in the White Palace that Hornet is certain wasn’t there before. She only knows it’s a door because the Pale King told her so when they reached it. The walls here fade away into black bedrock with a huge white brand emblazoned upon it. The King’s Brand. His iconography is everywhere, and thus immediately recognizable. Hornet instinctively understands that what she is seeing before her is an illusion. Reality had to end at some point in space and time for this to be possible, which comes close to overwhelming her. She clutches her father’s hand and hides her face in his robes.</p>
<p class="western">Still they keep walking, and the ground beneath them shifts from polished marble to uneven rock. The chill in the air goes all the way down to her bones. She opens her eyes and sees that they are no longer inside the Palace, but what appears to be the surrounding basin. It’s strange; they would’ve had to go down several flights of stairs just to reach the ground level.</p>
<p class="western">She huddles closer to the Pale King and asks in a tiny voice, “Where are we?”</p>
<p class="western">“A memory,” he answers, which doesn’t make sense. A memory is a thing in your mind, not a place.</p>
<p class="western">The King steps forward, and the door with the pronged symbol disappears. Beyond the archway is pitch black, and it swallows up any light that hits it from the outside. There is a familiar quality to it, a cold, briny wind that stirs the dust around Hornet’s feet. She remembers once a story Herrah told her when she was too frightened to sleep, about a kingdom deep beneath them that lived by the sea and made beautiful ships and statues. The biggest body of water Hornet has seen is the lake beneath the Hidden Village in Deepnest, which she hasn’t been to since Herrah went to sleep.</p>
<p class="western">“Fear not,” says the King. “What lies before us is merely a recreation. It cannot hurt you.”</p>
<p class="western">Hornet stays rooted in place, eyes on the ground and hands balled into fists. The King asks, “Would it be easier if I held you?” She sniffles and nods.</p>
<p class="western">It <em>is</em> easier, in fact. Hornet has spent her life being carried and led around by the hand. The creatures of Deepnest and beyond know better than to try and snatch a hatchling from its parent’s arms. She chews on her claws anxiously, nonetheless, as they head inside.</p>
<p class="western">The Pale King lights up their surroundings, which at first appear to be a whole lot of rock and nothing else. She then sees that they are standing on a platform, which extends over a long shaft. There is no sound at all, but a deep hum that she feels in her core.</p>
<p class="western">For some reason, jumping off the platform seems like a good idea. Something down there is calling to her without words, pulling her without touching. Hornet strains forward, but the King has anticipated this and tightens his grip.</p>
<p class="western">“This is the Abyss,” he tells her as she struggles. “Within, the Void, the essence which has given you and your siblings life. Even this facsimile, its simulacra, will entice you to rejoin it. Do not listen to its call.”</p>
<p class="western">He has used a couple of difficult words that distracts Hornet, but it’s more likely that his voice as a Higher Being and her father has a stronger influence over her attention. When she asks what he means, he explains: “A recreation, as I said.” He pauses, thinks of how to put it in terms a child could understand. “I made this from my memories.”</p>
<p class="western">“Ohh.” Hornet settles down. The ocean is still calling to her. “Is this where the ocean is? Did I come from here too?”</p>
<p class="western">“Yes, and yes. In a way.” He spreads his wings, and glides off the edge. There are floating platforms all the way down, some with spikes, others bare enough for him to land them safely. “It is the Abyssal Sea. I laid your siblings’ eggs here. In that way, they became children of the Void. You were not hatched here with them. Did your mother not tell you how you were born?”</p>
<p class="western">“Mmm.” It’s getting harder and harder to remember Herrah these days. “Uh-huh?”</p>
<p class="western">“You were born in Deepnest. I foresaw the day it would happen, and arrived shortly after. You were small enough to hold in one hand, I recall.” He looks more and more wistful with each word.</p>
<p class="western">“Am I still small enough to hold in one hand?” Hornet asks hopefully.</p>
<p class="western">The King, to her amazement, rolls his eyes. “No, my child. You are not.”</p>
<p class="western">They don’t talk much the rest of the way down. When the King’s light illuminates the very bottom, Hornet breaks the silence with a shriek. There are shells. Hundreds and thousands, vacant-eyed and cracked and most them turned up towards her.</p>
<p class="western">There’s nowhere to land but atop them, which the Pale King does. The clatter of dry shells is horrible to Hornet, and at this close a distance she sees that it is <em>just</em> their shells. Their bodies are all gone. She hides her face in his shoulder and quakes.</p>
<p class="western">The Pale King inhales like he’s about to say something. Hornet waits for him to comfort or reassure her, but no words come. He’s staring down at the discarded shells with the same horrified look he had when reading Howl’s note. Hornet pats him on the cheek, and he startles as if she had slapped him.</p>
<p class="western">“These are your siblings.” His voice, though hushed, echoes. “The rest of my children.”</p>
<p class="western">“What happened to them?” Hornet meets the eyes of a shell that is split in twain, and immediately looks away.</p>
<p class="western">“The first eggs never hatched,” he answers. “It took many clutches before any of them survived. Some died without ever seeing my light. Some saw it and were blinded. Others were confused or aggressive, and leaped to their deaths. Most simply couldn’t exist outside of the Abyss. I…”</p>
<p class="western">He puts a hand over his face. “Off the top of my head, I could list a dozen ways these children met their demise. I shouldn’t be telling you any of them.”</p>
<p class="western">There are tunnels leading in different directions out of the main cavern, and he steps towards one or the other before going still again. Hornet keeps her eyes trained on his face, but his expression becomes too much for her to bear, so she covers her eyes once more. She begins to weep softly; she can’t help it. Even the King’s shoulders shake. There were so many of them. More than could ever fit in one of her counting jars, or the palace itself. Imagine fifty Howls, or a hundred. A City of Tears’ worth of siblings.</p>
<p class="western">The illusion fades away, and they are back in the throne room. The King collapses onto his throne with wilting wings and a limp tail. Hornet sits paralyzed on his lap by what she had witnessed, unable to hear herself over his ragged breathing. He still cradles her in one arm as if nothing was wrong. His glow is diminishing.</p>
<p class="western">“Daddy?” Hornet sits up, alarmed. “You’re going out.”</p>
<p class="western">“I am sorry, my child. Conjuring that memory was...difficult,” he wheezes.</p>
<p class="western">That’s enough reassurance for Hornet, and in the ensuing silence between them, all she can think about are her siblings’ blank faces. She remembers, once, about the Midwife explaining the importance of a good nest. The location, she said, could make the difference between life and death for the eggs. There were many things to consider: the proximity to water and food sources, elevation or depth, climate, and so on.</p>
<p class="western">The more she thinks about it, the less she understands. The Abyss is not a good place to keep a nest. Something about it seemed antithetical to the idea of new life coming into the world and staying there, that much she knew.</p>
<p class="western">“Deepnest is good for eggs,” she suggests timidly. “If you asked Mama, she would’ve let you make a nest there.”</p>
<p class="western">“No, no.” He shakes his head, speaks more to himself than to Hornet. “Only a child born of the Void could contain Her light. They were meant to be empty, for an empty being will not have dreams that can be twisted into Infection. They were not meant to be capable of suffering. I simply…Do you understand any of this?”</p>
<p class="western">Hornet shakes her head, perfectly mirroring her father. His words are like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces, and mittens taped over her hands. The Abyss, dreams, the illness, and this mysterious ‘her’ are all connected, but what picture do they create?</p>
<p class="western">“Am I going to be empty, too?” she asks cautiously. She can easily imagine herself among the empty shells in the Abyss.</p>
<p class="western">“No, child. The hollowness the Void gives does not take away one’s soul. Every Vessel that ascended pointed to the contrary, but I kept going because I had no other option. It was not an ordinary plague. It was born from the mind, and took physical form. The Pure Vessel built up an immunity, and could come into contact with any infected bug without taking sick themselves. I assumed they were empty because of it. It was the only option I had left.”</p>
<p class="western">The Pale King repeats this, but the only bug left to justify himself to is too young to understand the breadth of his folly. The best response Hornet has for him is to sit quiet and pat his face while he struggles to vocalize how careless he was in his desperation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Finally done! Next chapter will be the epilogue. If you've stuck around to this point, thank you so much!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">When the Pale King finally took Hornet outside, she had long forgotten that she wanted to leave the White Palace at all. It came, then, as a surprise when he came into the nursery and told her they were going on a trip. First thing in the morning, after breakfast. They had both been cooped up long enough, and he thought it’d be a good idea for them to get some air.</p><p class="western">“Where?” Hornet bounces up and down and off the bed, into her father’s arms. A while back, he had stopped giving her lessons or new ideas for games, so anything new in her routine is like Hallowmas come early.</p><p class="western">“Kingdom’s Edge.” He moves her to his back, and there she remains as he goes to fetch her bag from the cupboard. It hadn’t been touched since she left Deepnest, and even then the Pale King had carried it for her. “The sky is visible from there. You’ve never seen it before, have you?”</p><p class="western">“Nuh.” Hornet slides down his tail and rolls across the floor. Kingdom’s Edge had been mentioned in her presence, when she was too young to remember, so he might as well be taking her to fairyland. She climbs back onto the bed to fetch her favorite plush toy, and brings it over to the Pale King. “I wanna bring this, too!”</p><p class="western">“Very well.” So far, he’s added half her wardrobe and all other necessities to the bag, with no sign of stopping. He tucks the plush into a side pocket, next to her horn brush. She watches with fascination at how he can make everything fit with little effort, but her attention is soon taken by the lack of light around him. If she squints, she can see a soft glow, but nothing more.</p><p class="western">His natural light had not recovered in the days since he showed her that mirage of the Abyss, and it made his entire being seem sickly and faint as a result. Though he still goes about his daily tasks, he does so with a weary quietness that worries Hornet more and more by the day.</p><p class="western">“The weather in Kingdom’s Edge is similar in temperature to Deepnest, but the wind will make it feel much colder,” the King is saying. He puts a heavy knitted cloak on her, and even a pair of little boots, which means the ground must be very rough: bugs rarely wear shoes, after all. This would be Hornet’s first time wearing any, so walking feels strange indeed. They make her legs heavy and walking cumbersome, and within minutes she’s sprawled out on the floor, defeated.</p><p class="western">“I don’t like these,” Hornet says, lifting one of her legs. She pulls each boot off and pitches it across the room. The Pale King, ever patient, just sighs and puts them back on. He then holds her hands before she can take them off again, which leads to a lot of struggling and fussing on her end.</p><p class="western">“Now is not the time to be difficult.” The end of his tail goes <em>whap, whap, whap</em> against the floor. “You <em>will</em> behave yourself.”</p><p class="western">“No shoes!” Hornet protests, and thumps her feet against the floor. She wrenches her hands away from the Pale King’s and crosses her arms. She’s upset, but only enough to lie still and sulk. Her frustration only mounts when he turns away and goes to make the bed. He’s ignoring her! She glares at the tip of his tail, which is now swishing back and forth at a relaxed pace. The last couple of things are packed, the bed is made, and anything that couldn’t fit is put away.</p><p class="western">Hornet kicks the floor half-heartedly. When that doesn’t get his attention, she rolls onto her stomach and bats at his tail. <span>This</span> makes him look over his shoulder. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he wiggles his tail to the side.</p><p class="western">All anger is forgotten in that moment: all that matters is that Hornet catches that tail. She leaps and latches onto it with both her arms and legs, hissing and biting at the armor-like scales. It is far more fun than attacking her stuffed toys, which do not react at all to her mauling them. The Pale King doesn’t react much either, just wiggles his tail around in an imitation of dying prey.</p><p class="western">“I’ve finished packing,” he says, with the energy of someone who had just move a mountain by themselves. “Come now. There is much to see, and little time to do it.”</p><p class="western">This strikes Hornet as strange: don’t they have all the time in the world now? She gets up and toddles after him, clutching his hand as she goes.</p><p class="western">Hornet still remembers breakfast that day, because it was the best she had ever had, and the last good one she would have for a long, long time. That day, they eat in the dining hall instead of the kitchen. The table is set with the finest china, and laden with a buffet of both of their favorite foods. There are meat pies and fruit pastries, toast with butter and jam, pancakes, eggs and fresh fruit and pitchers of juice and milk. Hornet squeals with glee and immediately rushes to fill her plate. She takes a bit of everything, and then seconds, all before the King has even finished his first serving.</p><p class="western">The conversation over breakfast is animated and about mundane things: Hornet’s dreams or lack thereof, the plants in the King’s study, books and accumulated dust and old things they thought they lost. Hornet arranges the fruit on her plate in a rainbow pattern, mixes her juice, and uses jam to draw faces on her pancakes, but is not once scolded for playing with her food. It must be a very special day, indeed. She is abuzz with excitement, and would have probably eaten half her body weight had the Pale King not advised her to stop. They compromise by packing up some leftovers in a picnic basket, which already contains their lunch.</p><p class="western">Overall, Hornet is in good spirits until they descend to the ground floor of the White Palace and stand before the door leading out. She tightens her grip on the picnic basket, looking nervously up at the cast-iron doors that she had passed through time and time again in her old life. Though nothing has changed about it, it no longer feels familiar or welcoming to her—more like the maw of a great beast leading to parts unknown.</p><p class="western">“It certainly has been a while...” The Pale King mumbles to himself. He taps a claw to his chin, starts to tell Hornet something, and pauses. Then he takes a long strip of cloth and hands it to her, saying, “You are to keep this over your eyes until we reach Kingdom’s Edge.”</p><p class="western">“Why?” Hornet grimaces as her vision goes dark. The sash is tied snugly around her head, and she wonders what he’ll make her wear next. A silly hat? “Can I peek?”</p><p class="western">“Absolutely not.” He takes her hand, and leads her forward. “You are to keep your eyes closed and covered until I say so.”</p><p class="western">Hornet’s not sure how she feels about walking with her eyes covered. Before she can even ask to be held, however, the Pale King lifts her up and sets her on his back. Shortly after, she hears a rustling sound—him picking up the basket—and then stone grinding against stone. At first she doesn’t recognize it as the door opening, and clings tightly to his shoulders. Then he starts to walk, and for the first time in about half a year, they leave the White Palace.</p><p class="western">Even behind her blindfold, she sees a bright white light. Then there is darkness, so consuming that she doesn’t think she could even see her hand if she peeked. The air is cold, and smells like it just rained—not unlike Deepnest, but back home she could always hear something or someone scuttling around. The only thing she hears is her and the Pale King’s breathing, and the Pale King’s legs scraping against rock.</p><p class="western">This must be the Ancient Basin, because the Palace doors lead nowhere else, but it sounds and feels different from what she remembers. There were canals, knights, plenty of things to make noise. It is then all the more terrifying when she finally <em>does</em> here something else: a coarse, scratching sound somewhere to her left.</p><p class="western">“We’re going to climb. Hold on tight,” the Pale King warns her, and then the world tilts backwards. Hornet no longer feels as brave as she did when she would, back home, climb around on the walls and ceiling. She used to drop down on unsuspecting retainers, or jump out at visitors, fancying herself as a little Deepnest knight, but now all she wants to do is curl up and hide.</p><p class="western">The King rounds the edge of the cliff, and once again they are on level ground. Hornet hears something that sounds like a howl of wind, if the wind were in excruciating pain.</p><p class="western">“Daddy, what’s that noise?” Hornet’s voice trembles.</p><p class="western">“Ignore it.” The King picks up the pace, and Hornet holds on as tight as she can. “We are almost to the tram.”</p><p class="western">Hornet can’t remember where the tram was, or where it led. There was one that went to the fringes of Deepnest, that she knows. When she hears its doors hiss open, she half expects to hear her mother walk out. Herrah always came to pick up Hornet either by tram, or by stag. In the case of the former, Herrah would hum along to the music that still plays over the speaker, tapping a claw on her knee or tilting her head towards the sound.</p><p class="western">The music sounds different—not the song, but the sound quality. It’s tinny and far-off, like someone took the speakers and took them outside. The car no longer runs smoothly, but jerks and shudders along the track until Hornet is dizzy. She crawls over the Pale King’s shoulder, onto his chest, and under his traveling cloak, where she immediately feels safer.</p><p class="western">“We’ll be there soon,” he tells her. As he says this, the tram doors open.</p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">When Hornet is finally allowed to remove her blindfold, she thinks she’s back at home. First there is white, nothing but blinding white, but then comes the howling wind and swirling white clouds. She blinks and rubs her eyes until her vision settles, and sees above her vast nothingness. There are floors and walls, great cliffs and platforms, but the ceiling is just gone. Little pinpricks of light blink and stutter in this great expanse, only to be obscured by slow-moving fog that is, strangely, nowhere near the ground.</p><p class="western">The Pale King, seeing her fascination, holds her up. “That is the sky, little one. The world is not all covered in earth.”</p><p class="western">He sets her down in the billowy white stuff that covers the dark, stony ground. “It should be safe for you to walk and run on your own, so long as you stay within sight of me.”</p><p class="western">Hornet takes a handful of the white stuff and sniffs. It smells like nothing, but tickles her nose and makes her sneeze. Then, it goes flying like dandelion fluff. It’s cold as snow, but dry. It doesn’t melt when she walks through it or puts her hands against it.</p><p class="western">“What is this?”</p><p class="western">“Ash.” The Pale King follows behind her at a slow pace. “It is detritus from my previous body.”</p><p class="western">“What’s detritus?”</p><p class="western">“Waste, debris. Rot. Every flake of ash here was once a part of me.”</p><p class="western">Hornet makes a face. “That’s gross!”</p><p class="western">“I know, dear.” The Pale King sighs. “Rest assured, it is perfectly safe.”</p><p class="western">Hornet snorts and runs on ahead, whooping and shouting the whole way. Her breath clouds in front of her, and her voice echoes along the canyon walls. This place is barren, but feels alive by the virtue of being outside. Not just a courtyard, but honest-to-wyrm <em>outside</em>. The fresh air exhilarates her and sends her sprinting, jumping, riding the wind on strings of silk.</p><p class="western">The Pale King, weary but patient, shepherds her up the canyon. His movements become increasingly slow, which Hornet attributes to the bag and basket he’s carrying, and leads him to a small cave into which only a dusting of ash has touched.</p><p class="western">“We have yet a way’s to go,” he protests when she sits him down and opens the picnic basket.</p><p class="western">“Where?” Hornet asks through a mouthful of food.</p><p class="western">“Please don’t talk with your mouth full…There is actually something here I need to show you.” The King sighs, and picks at the meager amount of food he has chosen for himself. There’s a splotch of black on the back of his hand that Hornet didn’t notice before, and suddenly it becomes hard to swallow. He was always a thin bug, but out here and without his light, he looks <em>skeletal</em>. She crawls over and holds up half of her meat pie, urging him to take it, but he raises his hand in silent decline.</p><p class="western">“Eat?” Hornet presses him, but he just shakes his head. “Oh...”</p><p class="western">Lunch is finished in silence, and afterwards Hornet finds it hard to be as cheerful as she was when they first arrived. She is still happy, yes, but a sense of foreboding has come over her. While she frolics as before, she keeps within short distance of her father, and frequently returns to his side to show him rocks or shells or arrowheads that she found buried in the ash.</p><p class="western">They reach the top of the canyon, and from this vantage point they both can see into the wastelands beyond. Hornet grows cold at the sight of the endless plains of nothingness, and immediately scurries back to hide under her father’s cloak. The edge of Hallownest had been fun, but she didn’t think it’d go on <em>forever</em>.</p><p class="western">“There is nothing beyond Hallownest,” the Pale King tells her. “No other life. Do not ever go beyond the boundaries of this Kingdom.” He leaves her bag and the basket beneath a short overhang of rock, presumably for safekeeping, and lifts her into his arms. Rather than prop her in the crook of his arm, so she can lean on his shoulder, he cradles her as if she were newly-hatched.</p><p class="western">Still holding her like this, he begins his descent down the other side of the cliff, into a wide tunnel. The wind here is harsh, and he pulls his cloak over Hornet to protect her from the worst of it. He pushes forward, slowly but surely, until they’re standing in a narrow cave in which dead grass and pale ferns are in abundance. At the end of it is the empty shell of a long-dead beast that is bigger than anything Hornet has ever seen—and she can only see the head of it. Its hollowed-out maw is ringed with spines that look just like the ones on the Pale King’s crown. She can hardly see inside of it, for how dark it is, and by all accounts should frighten her. Instead, she strains for it while the King holds her back.</p><p class="western">“This is my old shell,” says the Pale King. “This is where Hallownest began, centuries ago, when I died and was reborn. But that is of little consequence…inside is what is important. Therein lies the King’s Brand. Whoever bears it shall be the new monarch.”</p><p class="western">It’s all a lot for Hornet to take in at once, especially when it’s coming out of nowhere. She squints into the gloom, and just barely makes out the glow of a white light.</p><p class="western">“It shall be your duty to protect the Brand,” the King continues. “You must drive away anyone who comes near it, and you must keep your own a secret.”</p><p class="western">“My own?” Hornet looks at her hands.</p><p class="western">“Yes. I have foreseen you with one of your own, after your penultimate instar. The Hollow Knight, too, had one. I once loathed the idea of having a successor, for it meant that I would one day be unable to rule my kingdom, but nature takes its course...”</p><p class="western">He sits on the coils of his own tail, back hunched. Hornet gnaws one of her fingers, deep in thought, parsing his words. Living with someone such as he, who speaks the way he does, forces a bug to learn how to understand these things. She too will develop her own King’s Brand, which means that she is eligible for the throne—nature’s way of confirming her birthright.</p><p class="western">“Only those with the King’s Brand may have access to the resting place of your siblings,” he continues. “Though an ordinary bug would not survive the trip down. That was a place I should have never tried to control. Promise me you won’t do the same.”</p><p class="western">He holds Hornet close, seeming all at once frail and childlike but so very old. “I’ve damned Hallownest and, in my desperation and negligence, thousands of innocents perished. All for nothing. I can no longer protect you from my mistakes.”</p><p class="western">Hornet can’t bring herself to speak. She knows instinctively that nothing she says could comfort him, and it frightens her. She simply puts her arms around him and pats his shoulder.</p><p class="western">“Do not give up on them like I did,” the King pleads. His voice is hoarse, and she realizes he’s trying not to cry. “Protect the King’s Brand. Protect the seals that hold the Hollow Knight. Forgive me for placing this burden on you.”</p><p class="western">“Oh, um…okay.” Hornet doesn’t understand how she can do all of these things, when she’s still too little to use a needle.</p><p class="western">He then kisses her forehead and tells her, “Remember that I love you.”</p><p class="western">Hornet can do that. With a bright smile, she says, “Oh, that’s the easiest thing in the world! I love you too.”</p><p class="western">The world grows faint, loses its color, and disappears. Hornet sees everything and nothing, remembers and forgets everything. She doesn’t know which way is up or down, if she’s in the sky or deep underground. She is only aware that she is now alone, and then there is nothing at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span>It was generally agreed upon by members of the Hive that Hornet, Daughter of Hallownest, who had gone missing about a year prior, was dead. After the resurgence of the Infection, things got chaotic, and communication with Hallownest had gone down. The bees who had once been comfortable enough to go all the way to the far west end of the kingdom now hovered nervously within short flying distance from their home, making due with honey from the acidic plants that had grown out of the Waterways. Vespa had mourned Hornet and Herrah and then moved on, as she so often did. Death was something she had grown used to in her long life, which might soon be at its end. The Queen was very old. </span>
  <span>Already she was assessing young debutantes, who might one day take her place.</span>
</p><p class="western"><span>The Hive Knight had accepted all this as the new normal, so he is taken aback when a scout comes and urges him to come outside and </span><span><em>look at this. </em></span><span><em>We must inform </em></span><span><em>her Majesty</em></span><span><em> immediately!</em></span> <span><span>The scout sounds happy. What could have possibly happened to cause such excitement?</span></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Someone left a delivery at the entrance at the Hive: a basket of food, a duff</span>
  <span>el bag</span>
  <span>, and the f</span>
  <span>ormerly-missing</span>
  <span> princess. </span>
  <span>It is undoubtedly her, not just because of her resemblance to the royal family, but because she is carrying a brooch from the White Palace and Deepnest each. Such accessories are used to denote status, rather than crowns</span>
  <span>. She has grown since he last saw her at her naming ceremony. That was...two years ago, he believes. The Hive Knight bullies the other bees into carrying everything inside while he inspects the child. Princess or not, no infected are allowed inside. He acts indifferent about it all, but secretly hopes he won’t have to euthanize her. </span>
  <span>The Hive has lost enough bugs already.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>She’s fast asleep and swaddled in someone’s traveling cloak, and to his relief, looks perfectly fine. He then takes a look at the letter </span>
  <span>pinned to her dress</span>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>
    <em>To Queen Vespa of the Hiv</em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>e. By the time you read this, I shall have...</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>He stops reading there, because it’s very rude to p</span>
  <span>ry into</span>
  <span> someone else’s mail.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The princess stirs in his arms and sticks one of her little hands up. She mewls for her p</span>
  <span>arents</span>
  <span> and paws the air until the Hive Knight rocks her and pats her back, the way he does with the Hivelings when they’re fussy. </span>
  <span>Still little more than a baby, then. Practically speaking, this is another mouth to feed. He worries what the others will say. Not to mention, she’s not even a bee and therefore has little to contribute. He laments the days long gone, when he didn’t have to worry about the potential usefulness of hatchlings.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>For now, </span>
  <span>his duty is to simply carry her inside and present her to Queen Vespa. Hopefully, it’ll all work out.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Everyone's like 'the pale king is a stupid asshole' but what if he was a good parent who just fucked up a lot</p></blockquote></div></div>
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